


fire escapes (wrought iron and sea salt)

by saltytangerine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, 1940s, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gay Bucky Barnes, Gay Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Smut, Top Steve Rogers, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-12 17:39:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18451406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltytangerine/pseuds/saltytangerine
Summary: “Not in the fuckin’ kitchen, Buck, I gotta work in here.” He turns his head and in defiance of his own words, he pulls Bucky's shirt over his head and chucks it towards the hamper before kissing him again, harder, his teeth pinching at Bucky's lower lip. “How am I supposed to paint while thinkin’ about how I fucked you over the kitchen table? It's hard enough when I think about you crawlin’ over here last week, on your goddamn hands and knees, begging to suck me off.”





	fire escapes (wrought iron and sea salt)

**Author's Note:**

> I only write Bottom Bucky??? Set in Spring 1940.

Through his bedroom window, he wishes he could see a park, maybe even just a window box, filled with flowers, but instead, he sees brick. It’s simultaneously warmer and colder than the family home he left behind; the window fittings are old and wind whistles through the gaps that Bucky sticks socks in, but it is their new home. Most mornings he wakes to an empty space in the bed, still warm, but empty. He spreads his hand along the crumpled sheets in his usual ritual, remembering the body that had lain there all night, beside him until the early morning. Rarely does he wake up before him and when he does, he's thinks he's beautiful, his eyelashes are dark and one of his legs is often thrown over his. He sleeps on his front in just his briefs and in the summer, when he forgoes the blankets, Steve runs his fingers along his back and counts the freckles on his shoulders. He's strong and solid, his muscles move beautifully under his skin as he turns in his sleep and most nights, Steve crawls into bed far past midnight with charcoal still on his fingers and ideas still busy in his mind.  
  
It has been unseasonably warm for March and since Bucky's birthday, the mercury has done nothing but climb. He does his best work in the spring and fall-- summer he is too hot and winter he is usually too ill to think about drawing. Without flowerboxes or other inspiration-- he's painted the river too many times-- he's stuck on yet another sketch of James Buchanan Barnes, only thankful that at least this time, he's wearing clothes. 

  
“I wanna go somewhere where no one knows us, no one knows where we live, so I can walk down the street with you, holdin’ your hand, maybe I could even kiss your stupid face.” Bucky crouches behind Steve and kisses his cheek noisily.   
  
  
“How is kissin’ my cheek on a fire escape supposed to stop people from thinkin’ you ain’t constantly thinkin’ about my ass.” He can’t stop himself from grinning at his touch. He’s been sketching since Bucky left him a new sketchpad and a note to remember to eat, on the kitchen table, this morning, and now the cool spring dusk has consumed the sky in purple and blue. There was a brief intermission to eat shortly before Bucky arrived home, but he has no commissions to finish and he never has shifts on the weekends, especially not Easter weekend. He doesn't move from his spot when Bucky stands and leans forward with his elbows on the railing.  
  
  
“I don’t _just_ think about your ass.” He strikes a match on the top of his thigh where the thick denim of his overalls is the most taut. He shields the end of the cigarette from the wind with his hand and lights it with a deep inhale. Steve sits barefoot, with his right leg bent and his ankle over his left thigh while his left leg is between the railing, dangling. He shakes out the match’s flame and puts the charred wood in the mug they keep on the window ledge. “Sometimes I think about how goddamn criminal it is that your lips—”  
  
  
“Buck, I swear to God.” Steve tries to jab him in the thigh with the tip of his pencil but Bucky is too quick and he reaches down and closes his hand over Steve's.  
  
“Are you comin’ inside soon?” He says, still holding onto his hand. The grip he offers is warm and his hands aren't as soft as they used to be when they were young, but they feel uniquely like Bucky. Hand holding is not a thing they do often and Steve has caught his hand wandering towards his when they go walking together, like it has an itch begging to be scratched. He doesn't understand the significance; why it placates him to feel his hand in his, but when they sat together on Brighton Beach in the sand, the brief moment when Bucky's hand closed over his became the only memory he had of that day.  
  
“I guess I should rest my hand.” He agrees, pulling his hand back only to close his sketchpad and then to grip the railing as he pulls himself up. He goes back inside, and drops his sketchpad on the table before opening the kitchen window. The table is the one they managed to take from his mother's old apartment, but the chairs are new and don't quite match. Most of their furniture is not really theirs, no new pieces, all haggled for or permanently borrowed, but all he cares about is their bed and the mattress that Bucky queued up outside St Charles’ to buy at a discount from the church.  
  
“Did you make dinner?” Bucky calls back, flicking ash into the mug. He’s only just put the sketchpad down, but his view of Bucky leaning against the railings, one foot braced on the wrought iron, his overalls unfastened and tied around his waist, the graying tank top too tight at his waist and shoulders makes him want to fill his sketchpad with nothing else but him.  
  
“There’s still leftovers; I can heat it up if you want.” He calls out, opening the icebox and taking out the container. It reminds him of when they were younger, and before his mother came home, he was tasked with heating up last night's dinner and sharing it between them; Bucky's bread buttered, his without. It is painfully domestic; Bucky works two jobs and he takes classes when he can and takes jobs here and there and in the evenings they sit together on the couch, listening to the radio. Some nights, in agreement, they go out to find women to dance with, to keep Bucky's reputation intact, and Steve wishes that he didn't have to go because jealousy boils inside him at how Bucky beams the whole time he dances with them.  
  
“I already ate--” He climbs back in through the window and pushes it shut when he's inside. He's only smoked half of the cigarette, a habit he picked up from the boys on the dock, saving it for later. “Jackson's wife, she packs him a huge lunch on Thursdays, and he's as skinny as a rake, so he shares it with us.” His arms are around Steve's waist before he can turn around and he doesn't mind being crowded by Bucky and nobody else. He likes the feeling of his back against his chest, strong arms around his waist and his lips at his neck. “They keep on askin’ me, James, when are you gonna find a nice wife? And _God_ , they don't know how good I got it at home.”  
  
“I ain't your wife.” Steve gasps out softly when he feels Bucky's hips grind against his and his left hand drop from his waist to slip under the waistband of his slacks. He doesn't often wear underwear if he isn't leaving the apartment for the day and Bucky's hand is warm and he has the start of calluses on the underside of his fingers, from handling rope all day. He knows exactly how much pressure to use, how to grip, when to let go and when to keep on, as he starts to knead his hand over his soft cock to hardness. The softness of his lips against his neck as he speaks sends Steve leaning back against him heavily, his hips occasionally canting into his hand when Bucky finally wraps his fingers around him, stroking him languidly as he kisses along his neck.  
  
“Good, because I want you to fuck me tonight.” Steve doesn't resist him and truth be told, personally, he prefers to have Bucky on the bed, spread wide for him rather than taking it from him. There are a thousand other things he would rather do than get fucked, and luckily when Bucky comes begging, it's always him talking sweetly, trying to get Steve inside him. He once whispered that he's never come so hard as when Steve fucked him until he couldn't breathe on his nineteenth birthday, in the early morning, listening to the news on the radio; he still can't remember the headlines from that day. He doesn't stop stroking him, but he turns Steve in his arms and tilts his chin up with two fingers and kisses him slowly, as if they have all the time in the world; his mouth so inviting and Steve is the first to push his tongue over his.  
  
“Not in the fuckin’ kitchen, Buck, I gotta work in here.” He turns his head and in defiance of his own words, he pulls Bucky's shirt over his head and chucks it towards the hamper before kissing him again, harder, his teeth pinching at Bucky's lower lip. “How am I supposed to paint while thinkin’ about how I fucked you over the kitchen table? It's hard enough when I think about you crawlin’ over here last week, on your goddamn hands and knees, begging to suck me off.”  
  
“I don't care where--” He takes his hand back and unbuttons Steve's slacks and starts to get down on to his knees. His mouth practically waters at the thought of feeling the weight of Steve on his tongue. He isn't as big as some men he's been with, but with its flushed head, its surprising thickness, he still stretches him and makes his jaw ache when he spends his time there, making him come undone with just his lips and tongue. “Just need you inside me, been thinkin’ about it all day, God you don't know what it’s like, to actually feel yourself _aching_ for it.”  
  
“No.” Steve grabs him by the hair as he crouches. He knows he likes it from the way his eyes flutter shut immediately, how Bucky lets a soft whimper escape from his perfectly parted lips. If Steve wanted to drag him across the floor, to their bedroom, he would let him willingly, but he has no interest in scraping his knees on the way to the bedroom tonight. He tugs on Bucky's hair and he stands, obedient and at Steve's mercy and he wants to kiss him so badly that his lips burn, but he knows better. “Go get ready in the bedroom; I gotta clean up, I know how you like a clean house.” He pats Bucky's cheek and lets go of his hair and turns back to the bowl he took out of the icebox, knowing that Bucky will do exactly as he asks if he has the promise of being full up looming over him.  
  
The bedroom has never felt further away as he makes his way there, alone. He knows the routine; his clothes come off and get folded on the dresser, he'll quickly wash himself and by the time Steve is ready to come in, he'll have two fingers inside himself and an open jar of Vaseline on the bed.  
The angle is never quite right, he thinks to himself. He spends all his time and effort looking after his Steve; if people saw him in all his six foot glory, arms strong from lifting crates, spread on their bed in his back, slicking up his fingers while he waits for his five foot four, ninety-five pound, unassuming lover, they wouldn't believe him and the way he comes undone with just Steve's touch. Work in the spring is slow but the loads are heavy and at the end of his week, Bucky aches from his shoulders to his ankles, wound up tighter than a freshly laid up coil of hawser-laid rope. He plants both feet on the bed with his knees bent, the heels of his feet almost touching his rear. The vaseline is cool when he digs two fingers into the jar and he spreads it along two fingers of his left hand and wiping what is left on his right hand down along his thigh. His right hand grips his right cheek, pulling them apart, his hole exposed for when his left hand reaches down, behind his thigh and circles the tips of his fingers against where he's tightly closed. He could take his time, coax himself into being able to fit all four fingers in, but the kitchen isn't that untidy and he wants Steve inside him half an hour ago. He lets out a shaky exhale when he pushes his middle finger in, just to the second knuckle, and the tightness around his finger is hot and as good as one finger inside feels, it's never enough, so a second is never far away.  
  
“Don't I get to taste?” Bucky's cheeks are already flushed and the red is creeping down along his neck and chest as he keeps fingering himself, watching Steve come in to the room. To his dismay, Steve is still fully dressed and looks completely unaffected, whereas the blue in Bucky's eyes is almost completely swallowed by his pupils and he lets out a whimper when he tries to sit himself up and the tips of his fingers curve straight into his prostate.  
  
“Is that what you want, sweetheart, to be _my_ wife?” He shuts the door behind him and slides the bolt across, as if anyone could barge in to their apartment and find them here. The curtains are drawn across the windows and the sun continues to dip below the horizon and the room is flooded with a warm orange light, highlighting every dip and curve Bucky has. The lightbulbs in their apartment are bright and Steve appreciates candles and their soft light; everything looks better in candlelight, not to mention the low cost sweetens the deal. He walks over to the table by Bucky's side of the bed and lights the two pillar candles there and then walks to the other side and lights the single candle on the dresser on his side, refusing to look at Bucky; the slick sound of his fingers sliding in and out is making it hard for him to exercise any kind of restraint. He turns to face the bed and he reaches over, his long fingers raking through Bucky's dark hair, smoothing it away from his face. His breath catches momentarily at how perfect he looks as he licks his lips and pushes into Steve's touch. “Why don't you come get me undressed?”  
  
“You ain't the one tryin’ to wash vaseline out your clothes.” He mutters, but still, he sits up and moves to his knees so he can unbutton Steve's shirt, ugly and tan colored, Bucky hates this shirt, but it has Steve in it, so he excuses it. The buttons are small and he grunts softly when he misses one and for a moment, he contemplates just ripping it, but money is tight and he can't afford to. When the shirt is open, he slides it down off his shoulders and he can't help himself; he leans in and presses his lips to his, holding back as he kisses him, unbuttoning his slacks with practiced ease. He always runs hot in the summer, burning gently under his skin and Bucky has not spent a night cold in his bed for as long as he can remember.  
  
“Buck.” He steps out of the slacks and, for a moment, he feels shy, comparing himself to Bucky, but before he can think about it further, Bucky's moved from kissing along his neck to shifting himself down so he can grab his hips to hold himself steady. When he grabs Bucky's hair this time, he doesn't pull him away; he tangles his fingers in the dark strands, the hair cream he uses clinging to his skin, pushing his face down to meet his dick. Their kitchen is small and Bucky keeps an organized house, so Steve had stood in front of the counter, willing himself to stay away until he guessed Bucky would be ready. He hadn’t touched himself, no matter how hot the memory of Bucky’s lips burned. It took enough effort for him to forget Bucky just long enough to run a damp rag over the counter and nestle the bowl back inside the icebox; but now he is here, and Bucky is here, on his knees and elbows, touching and kissing him and if he cared to think back to being eighteen, he never would’ve believed that he would have the chance of having him again.  
  
“You should be riding me, the way you always beg for me to fuck you.” He clears his throat, swallowing down any anxiety that has a tendency to bubble there. There’s something about the way Bucky takes his time kissing along his front, from the crest of one hip to the other, as if he isn’t the one who begged to have a dick inside him. Bucky knows better than to pull away when Steve’s grip on his hair tightens and his other hand comes down to cup his jaw in his small palm. Steve stays standing, his knees and shins pressed against the bed frame and for a second thinks his grip on Bucky’s jaw is too tight until he licks a long stripe along the underside of his hard cock, from the balls right up to the very tip, turning his head so his cheek can keep it pressed flush to Steve’s lower belly.  
  
“Hell no, I'm too heavy for you and you need exercise that ain't running away.” He manages to grunt out, paying attention to mouthing along the top inch or so, the tip of his tongue coming out to run over the frenulum; his cheek smearing the precum that leaks from the head. He pulls away his head only enough for Steve to be freed from its space between his cheek and his belly and when Steve groans in protest, he makes a show of slowly shrugging his shoulders and closing his lips around the tip, his tongue running flat and wide over the slit. In the summer, he has a habit of licking his lips and the salt in the air by the docks chaps them so they’re almost unrecognizable, but it is still spring and his lips are smooth and he tucks them over his teeth when Steve guides his mouth open wider, forcing him further inside. It isn't difficult for him to take Steve down, the thick weight pressing on his tongue, and the feeling of the blunt head hitting the back of his throat is second nature to him now and his eyes no longer water when he is less than careful with how his hips move. The fingers fisted in his hair are for show and Bucky's benefit, dragging whimpers from him when their grip tightens.

He isn't in the business of lying to boost Steve's ego; he left him in the morning with just a kiss on the cheek and by noon he had heard a song on the radio that reminded him of him and by three, he caught himself looking over his shoulder in anticipation of seeing a troublesome blond picking a fight. He isn't making a show of burying his nose in the wiry blond curls at the base of his cock, for slicking him up, even though spit pools in his mouth as he noisily moves his head back and forth; he’s just that greedy for it. He reaches out from under him to grab the tub and when Steve lets go of his jaw, he pulls back and quickly strokes the jelly along him before palming the head and pulling back so Steve tugs on his hair again.  
  
“Baby, you're so impatient.” He all but tosses Bucky back on to the bed by his hair, and as pliant as Bucky always is with him, he goes easily as if he has no bones in his body. His lips are still red and the flush spreads down his neck and along his chest and when he lifts his rear so he can push himself back further on the bed, Steve can see where the vaseline is shiny across his hole. He doesn’t like the taste of the jelly and he doesn’t like the thickness on his tongue so he puts a knee on the bed and grabs Bucky’s knee and pushes his leg out, a wordless command that Bucky understands and he grips both legs just behind his knees.  
  
“Like this?” He asks and he looks so perfect spread over their brown and white sheets and only wanting to please Steve that his previous thought to ask him to roll onto his front is forgotten.  
  
“Just like that, sweetheart.” He rubs his palms along Bucky’s thighs, the movement soothing to both of them as he leans down between his legs and kisses his lower lip; he can feel Bucky trying his hardest not to bite at him, full to the brim with anticipation as he digs his nails into the back of his thighs. “What was it you wanted?”  
  
“Stevie… Stevie, c’mon, you know what I want.” He licks his lips and his head falls back onto the pillow as he waits. His eyes are closed and all he can see is nothingness, anticipation burning through him until he feels the unmistakable feeling of the pads of Steve’s fingers smearing a little more jelly over his entrance and his heart skips a beat; he feels it in his throat. “Please, baby; want you inside me, you’re fuckin’ ruining me here.”  
  
“I know, I know.” It’s all he can say, on his knees, between Bucky’s legs. He isn’t built for endurance; all his energy is in short bursts, sprints and quick rounds with his fists. Sex is no exception. He knows how to get the most out of his exertions and push himself to the edge of breathlessness while pushing Bucky there, too. One hand on his hip, the other guiding himself inside, the tight heat of Bucky’s body swallows him almost whole as he finally starts to bury himself inside, pausing only briefly once the head has completely disappeared and Steve needs to hold back for not only Bucky’s adjustment, but his own too.  
  
He has to physically fight himself from pushing his legs together at the first press of his cock against his hole and he hungrily gulps at the air as Steve works his way in; his back lifts off the old mattress in a perfect arch and the stretch of Steve’s cock always burns for a fleeting moment before Bucky’s trying to get the rest inside. There’s still the memory of vaseline on the fingers of his left hand and he drops the grip on his leg to reach up behind him and blindly grab for the headboard. It is always the same, he gets Steve fully seated inside and before pulling out, he’ll jolt his hips against his when Bucky thinks he can’t get any deeper, and nine times out of ten, it sends the thick head dragging over his prostate. He wraps his now free leg around Steve’s waist loosely, still holding the other while his heel digs into the cheek of his ass, desperate to feel every inch he has to offer him. Words lose their meaning and he's unable to even use them when he’s this hard, this full, and as Steve starts to move, he’s determined that he’s going to come untouched.  
  
They know each other, they know what the other likes and giving them what they like isn't exactly awful for them. Steve's thrusts are sharp, almost too shallow, rewarded by the way Bucky instinctively clenches around him each time he pulls out. In the back of his mind, he wishes that he had turned the radio on to perhaps mask Bucky's gasps and creaking of the protesting wooden bed frame, but Bucky makes a delicious noise when he angles his hips up and it pulls gasps from his own throat and he's definitely glad he heard it. He leans almost heavily over him, his small frame draping over his as he fucks into him, hips almost cruel against his. He glances down between them, his thighs turning the softest pink as he slams against him and Bucky's cock sits neglected, hard and heavy against his lower belly. Precum pools on his skin and from the way Bucky's panting and rocking back against him, he knows that he won't take much to get him fully off. He moves his left hand from Bucky's hip and smears the slickness across his palm before wrapping his fingers around him.  
  
“No.” He croaks out and for a moment Steve stops completely, frozen above him, blue eyes wide. “No, don't touch.” He grabs Steve's hand from where he had wrapped it around him and kisses his palm before biting the side of his thumb gently. “Wanna come on just your dick.”  
  
“You’re gonna kill me.” He mutters into his mouth when he kisses him, taking his hand away from Bucky’s grip, using both hands on his hips to pull him back against him as he drives himself in harder, so close to his own release, flushed cheeks and a burning inside his chest as his lungs try to keep up. “You sure it’s gonna be enough?” He says, not fully convinced, but when he shifts further up and pulls Bucky’s thighs over his own, Bucky’s eyes roll back slightly and his heels dig into Steve’s ass, drunk on his touch.  
  
It doesn’t take much more, his entire body aches with the need of release and as Steve doesn’t pull away from his prostate, he almost forgets to breathe as he comes, feeling relief wash through him from his very core to the tips of his fingers. Ropes don’t happen when he comes like this; his cock steadily leaks the whole time before he finally gets there and it feels like his entire belly is covered in his own mess. He gets lost in his rediscovered breathing to fully appreciate the way Steve’s fingers dig into his hips and the sharpness of his hipbones against the fleshy meat of his thighs when Steve finally buries himself inside, smearing his own release inside him.  
Steve knows he should pull out, but Bucky’s thighs are strong and he doesn’t think that he could pull out if he wanted to, so it’s where he stays, nestled inside Bucky as he catches his breath, his head resting on his chest, stroking the top of his thigh. He feels fuzzy around the edges and if he was asked to stand, he’s sure his knees would protest and he would end up on the floor, so while he waits for his heart rate to slow back down and his breathing to even out, he lets Bucky stroke his hair.  
  
“Yeah, it was enough.” He says softly, his fingers carding through his blond hair, shifting his hips back against him, and when Steve moves, it’s enough that he slips out, almost completely soft and slick against him.  
  
“I guess you don’t got work in the morning?” Steve licks his lips and turns his face against Bucky’s neck before sitting up and he feels loose when he sits back on his knees.  
  
“Yeah, no, doll, I got an early delivery job so I had to pounce on you before you finally think about draggin’ yourself to bed just before dawn.” His voice is full of nothing but affection and he lets Steve clean them both up with the handkerchief that he left on the dresser. He pats Steve’s hand gently and he sits on the edge of the bed for a moment before standing and going to the bathroom. The candles are thick and their burntime is long and when Bucky returns, smoking the rest of his cigarette from earlier, Steve blows them out and lays back on the bed, an arm out, a space ready for Bucky to take.  
  
“If you’re out in the mornin’, I guess I gotta take advantage of sharing the bed with you tonight.” He curls his arms around him as he settles against him and kisses the crown of his head. The apartment is never fully dark; their curtains are too thin and new street lamps were installed two weeks ago. The wind sometimes whistles past the socks and the electricity is intermittent but Steve never feels weak and Bucky is always looked after.   
  
"Maybe I'll go find you a flowerpot and you can brighten up that portfolio of yours." His yawn is quiet and his eyes are heavy as Steve runs the tips of his fingers along his upper arm, his thin thighs cradling his own. He smokes it down to the very end, the heat threatening to burn his fingers and he stubs it out on the candle plate. 

"Don't you wanna be my model anymore?" Bucky can feel Steve's smile against him and Steve tilts his head and places a kiss below his ear. "You're a lot prettier than a flowerpot; terracotta ain't your shade, I like you in blue."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for making it down this far! Kudos/comments very much welcomed!  
> Find me on Twitter: [saltietangerine](http://twitter.com/saltietangerine)


End file.
